


This Fever Dream

by StealthKaiju



Series: Captain's Songbook [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: First Time, M/M, PWP, Pon Farr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 21:23:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15566598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StealthKaiju/pseuds/StealthKaiju
Summary: Spock goes into Pon Farr... there are absolutely no further complications at all. Nope, none whatsoever.Inspired by Peggy Lee - Fever





	1. Chapter 1

_When you put your arms around me_

_I get a fever that’s so hard to bear_

 

In hindsight it was obvious what was going on. However, as clairvoyance was not an inherent trait of either Vulcan or Terran genealogy, Spock was endeavouring to not feel too disappointed with himself.

 

He was entirely unsuccessful.

 

Remorse was illogical if it had no productive outcome. It had no effect on his present situation – sequestered in a private chamber in a sanatorium on New Vulcan, his only accoutrements his robes, a small pot of burning incense and the sedatives Doctor M’Benga had given him – so he should dismiss it.

 

He knelt in the traditional pose and closed his eyes, attempting to meditate. He tried to breathe slowly and deeply, tried to calm his fast heartbeat, to empty his mind of superfluous thoughts.

 

All he could think of was tanned skin. Hair the colour of ripe wheat. Cerulean eyes.

 

Laughter. A scent of something bitter and rich, like dark chocolate. The warmth of a hand on his shoulder.

 

He felt the fever crawl over his skin. He wanted to claw at himself, rip himself apart, drag out whatever it was that boiled his blood and poisoned his mind.

 

Except, that wasn’t what he really wanted, was it? He knew, even if he would never admit it to himself except in his loneliest moments.

 

He wanted Jim.

 

*

 

_One week earlier_

Spock could tell Jim was frustrated. His frustration was written in the taut line of his shoulders as he sat waiting for the subspace channel to be established, his right thigh moving up and down as he quickly tapped his foot. The vibrations were causing Spock’s own chair, sat next to the captain’s, to wobble slightly.

 

‘The admiral is keeping us waiting on purpose.’ Jim muttered.

 

Spock nodded. ‘That is highly probable.’ Without realising, he had gently placed his hand on top of Jim’s knee to try and stem the movement.

 

Jim turned to him with a sheepish look. ‘Sorry Commander,’ he said.

 

They waited for a few minutes in a nervous silence.

 

‘You know, I hate when he does this. He asks for a certain time, keeps us waiting. It’s just a power play.’

 

Spock tilted his head to the side. ‘It is no matter. It is not as if we have anything else to do.’

 

Jim laughed, a quick staccato, then bit his lip to stop himself. ‘I love it when you’re sarcastic. It’s a comfort to know you can be as juvenile as the rest of us.’

 

Spock was about to reply when he noticed Jim’s right sleeve was not pulled down properly. With a slight huff – how can anyone fail to dress properly? – he gently pulled it down, careful to only touch the fabric and not the bare skin of Jim’s wrist.

 

Jim kept still, only lifting his hand slightly to facilitate Spock’s endeavour. Spock, concentrating on his task, could not see the grin on his friend’s face but he knew it was there.

 

‘You going to help me dress every morning?’ Jim asked cheekily.

 

‘If it is required.’

 

There was a soft beep to signal that the channel was ready, and Spock snapped his hands back to his lap. He felt Jim stiffen beside him, his professionalism a chrysalis that made him more austere, more astute, and in a way (as he had seen on countless missions that had turned sour) much more dangerous.

 

He respected his captain. He trusted him.

 

‘Good morning Admiral,’ Jim said to the face on the screen, his voice now coldly civil. Spock sat up even straighter, as they listened to their briefing.

 

*

Spock rarely made a habit of self-pleasure. However, in the last year he had noticed an increase off forty-four percent in the frequency of his indulgences.

 

He initially concluded that it was due to a mix of work stress and the termination of his romantic relationship with Nyota. It was three months later that he realised his habit was not only more frequent but more for enjoyment than function. He began to take longer over it, deliberately drawing it out, even _fantasising_.

 

About a hot, hard body underneath him. A definitely male body.

 

A body with blonde hair, and eyes the colour of a blue cloudless sky.

 

*

 

He was in the mess with Jim and Leonard (‘first names Spock, I always feel like I’m in trouble with you otherwise’), sitting opposite them. They had been eating and discussing Mr Scott’s latest trans-warp theories, though admittedly Leonard had not really contributed to the conversation and had spent most of it eyeing Jim’s cold ice drink with some suspicion.

 

When there was a lull, Leonard picked up Jim’s drink. ‘Haven’t you had three of these already this evening?’

 

Jim shrugged. ‘Maybe. It’s just coffee, milk and ice.’

 

Leonard raised an eyebrow. ‘Giving you caffeine is like giving MDMA to a toddler. Besides, you’ve had about two glasses of ice water just sitting here now.’ He placed the back of his hand on Jim’s forehead. ‘You seem hot. You feel dehydrated?’

 

Spock found his attention slipping from the barrage of diagnostic questions and Jim’s dismissive answers, as he felt a coil of something hot and sharp in his gut.

 

The doctor was touching what was his. This was not acceptable.

 

‘Spock, are you… are you growling?’ Jim asked him, his voice quiet, tentative. Spock looked at him, seeing two wide eyes.

 

‘I…’ he began, but realised he had no words. His gaze moved from Jim to Leonard, who was giving him a calculating look.

 

 _Damn McCoy_ , he thought suddenly, the thought unexpected and vicious. _Damn him._

‘I… I think it prudent if I return to my quarters immediately. I do not feel well.’

                                     

Jim’s eyebrows creased together, a sign of worry. ‘Would it not be more prudent to stop by sickbay, talk to M’Benga?’

 

Spock controlled the shudder that threatened to run down his spine. That was a conversation he was not going to have.

 

‘I think it best if I return to my quarters. To rest,’ he replied.

 

Jim opened his mouth but Leonard got there first. ‘Jim, you accuse me of being a mother hen, now you’re trying to dictate to a Vulcan about his health!’ He gestured to Spock. ‘Let the walking computer, you know, recharge or whatever he does, he’ll be right as rain in the morning.’

 

Spock was almost thankful to the doctor, until he noticed that McCoy had placed his hand on Jim’s shoulder, in no doubt what was a placating, conciliatory gesture.

 

But he should not touch what was not his!

 

Spock got to his feet so suddenly the chair legs screeched across the floor. The noise was horrific, but he could hardly hear it over the sound of his blood pumping. He barely got out a ‘Goodnight gentlemen,’ before he paced out of the room and into the turbolift, which (thank Surak) was empty.

 

It was only when he reached the sanctuary of his quarters that he let himself collapse. He fell onto the floor, curled in a foetal position. Sobs wracked his body as he let the jealousy and loathing roll through him.

 

He needed to get off the ship. Away from Jim, before he did something irrevocable to ruin their friendship.

 

Because Jim was a friend, wasn’t he? A close friend, a friend so close he was almost part of his soul. He was attracted to his energy, his curiosity, his appreciation of life, his spirit and his intellect. He was attracted to his beautiful, powerful body.

 

He wanted to cherish him. Wanted to ravish him. Wanted to talk with him for hours. Wanted to spend the night entangled with him, no conversation except moans, whimpers and his name whispered, cried out, shouted out in pleasure.

 

He was not Vulcan. He was not Terran. He was a chaotic, disordered jumble of fear, self-hate, denial and lust.

 

He went straight into the sonic shower, still fully clothed, and set it onto the coldest setting he could withstand. It was painful, but at least it cooled the burning of his skin if only for a few moments of clarity.

 

Five point three minutes to be exact. Long enough for him to send a missive to his father to ask for his assistance to prepare for his seclusion. Long enough for him to contact M’Benga and ask for his sign-off for medical leave.

 

Thankfully they were near enough to New Vulcan that he could ask for the ship to stay within the planet’s orbit for a few days, which should be sufficient time for the fever to pass.

 

Or for a quick funeral and cremation so his ashes could be cast among the stars.

 

*

 

He was not surprised to hear the chime at his door in the morning. Nor was he surprised at the anger and fear he could hear in the captain’s voice over the communicator when he ignored him.

 

‘Spock, it’s Kirk. You open this door now, that’s an order.’

 

There was a brief silence. Spock knew Jim was not waiting, he was typing in the override code. He opened the door, not wanting to have such a private conversation in the corridor but not trusting himself to have Jim inside his quarters.

 

Jim stood with his arms crossed, the anxiety crackling over his body like static. Yet his face was like a mask, neutral as marble. ‘What is going on?’ he demanded in a low voice, though there was no one around to overhear.

 

Spock noticed a thin bead of moisture pool at the hairs by the captain’s ear and trickle into his collar, a sign he had showered and dressed in a hurry, not stopping to dry himself properly. It took all his control not to trace the path that droplet had taken with his tongue.

 

He could not look Jim in the eyes, so he stared at the floor instead. ‘I am unwell. Doctor M’Benga agrees that it is best treated on New Vulcan. I apologise for the inconvenience and disruption, yet I hope the substitutes I have recommended for first officer and science officer will help ease any difficulties that may arise from my absence. I have every confidence in their abilities.’

 

‘Inconvenience?’ Jim replied, his voice dangerously soft. ‘Do you think, really think, I give a damn about inconvenience?’ He stepped closer. ‘I want to know what’s wrong.’

 

Spock hung on to the doorframe, partly for support, partly to stop his hand from grabbing onto Jim and reeling him closer. ‘It is nothing to worry about.’

 

Jim smiled mirthlessly. ‘You are a crap liar, Mister Spock.’

 

He waited for a few moments for Spock to explain, but Spock kept silent. He did not trust himself to speak, or even look at his friend, instead staring at the floor until Jim eventually stormed off.

 

*

 

His father had arranged accommodation for him in a sanatorium a few miles out from the main city. It had specifically been designed for Vulcans approaching their time – each room was designed for one, with a sleeping alcove carved into the wall (no furniture to throw or smash), and a sonic shower in the corner. There were no windows. Vulcan healers were on site, but had to be summoned by communicator as the rooms were heavily soundproofed.

 

Spock had been there for two days and his fever was getting worse. Trying to think coherently was like trying to hold water with a net.

 

His communicator beeped at him. He barely resisted the urge to throw it at the wall. He snarled once he recognised McCoy’s voice through the murky haze of his consciousness.

 

‘I would have hoped you would have understood the simple instruction of no contact whatsoever,’ Spock said, his voice rough and raucous from lack of use.

 

McCoy’s answer was brief and almost robotic. It took a while for Spock to understand exactly what McCoy had said, and he had to repeat it two more times. It did not make sense. It could not be.

 

‘You need to come back. It’s Jim. He’s gone into pon farr.’


	2. Chapter 2

_Fever till you sizzle_  
_What a lovely way to burn_

_Two days earlier…_

‘You need to tell me what’s wrong with Spock.’

‘Dammit Jim, I’m a doctor not a psychic! And I’m not his doctor, and even if I was, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Doctor-patient confidentiality.’

Jim sighed, tugging on his hair. Disturbed sleep over the past week was playing havoc with his self-control. He had already snapped at, then immediately apologised to two yeomen and he hadn’t even had his breakfast.

Not that he was hungry. Just thirsty. It was way too hot, something must be wrong with the environmental controls, the ship always seemed too hot lately.

‘Bones, I… I don’t know what to do. He seemed so off last night, and he won’t tell me what’s wrong. I just…’ he expelled his breath sharply, threw his hands up in the air. ‘I just feel so useless!’

Bones crossed his arms and blocked Jim’s path. ‘I know this is hard to hear, but there’s nothing you can do.’ He put a hand on Jim’s shoulder, noticing and trying not to take to heart how his friend, usually so tactile and comfortable with physical affection between them, flinched at the touch. ‘You have to trust that Spock knows what he is doing, and that the Vulcan healers know their stuff. Besides that, M’Benga is an expert, the best of the best, and you need to trust his judgment.’

Jim took a deep breath, closed his eyes and rolled his head from side to side a few times to shake off tension. ‘You’re right,’ he said eventually.

Bones shrugged, crossing his arms again. ‘I know.’

*

Jim had difficulty concentrating on his shift. He kept looking over to the science station out of habit, disappointment roiling whenever he saw Spock’s replacement there. He couldn’t find a comfortable position to sit in, had to keep walking round the bridge.

He did not stop to talk to any of his crew. Usually he would say hi, check on their work, make a few jokes. He didn’t have the energy to talk to people, but every time he stopped moving he felt his skin crawling and he had to get up to distract himself.

At maybe his twelfth lap, Uhura called out to him. ‘Captain, is something wrong?’

He had every intention of telling her everything was fine (he had to bite back his first wholly inappropriate and wholly uncharacteristic instinct to tell her to mind her own damn business) when suddenly everything started spinning. The bridge went dark, and he had a brief sensation of floating before losing consciousness.

*

He opened his eyes to the subdued lights of the sickbay, and saw Bones and Chapel by his bedside. The nurse gave him a small smile then walked off. Bones scowled.

‘When was the last time you ate?’ he demanded.

‘Your bedside manner is as wonderful as always Bones,’ Jim countered.

Bones grunted, running a scanner over Jim’s body. ‘These readings hardly make sense.’ He passed a glass of water to Jim. ‘Drink. Sip slowly, don’t gulp.’

Jim took it gratefully. His throat felt like sandpaper. So thirsty.

‘When did you eat?’ Bones asked again.

‘Um… I ate… last night, I think.’

‘How have you been sleeping lately?’

‘In my bed, usually on my back with my eyes closed.’

Bones didn’t even roll his eyes. Now Jim was really worried.

‘I haven’t been sleeping too great, the last week or so. About three or four hours, slightly interrupted.’

‘Nightmares?’

Jim felt his cheeks heat, and coughed to get over his embarrassment. ‘Not exactly.’

Bones’ face remained in blank doctor mode. ‘Wet dreams?’

Jim choked out a laugh. ‘It’s like being a teenager again.’

‘Dear gods, preserve us,’ Bones muttered. ‘Well, for now Sulu has the com, and you’re being kept in here for observation.’ He held out a finger. ‘Don’t even think about arguing with me. You keep burning up hot enough to fry an egg then freezing up enough to cool a beer.’

Jim looked at him askance. ‘That a medical opinion?’

Bones smiled. ‘No, empirical fact. You’ve been out of it for nearly an hour, and it helped pass the time waiting for you to wake up.’

Jim laughed, and then obediently tilted his head so Bones could hypo his neck. ‘At least bring me a book, or some music or something.’

‘Sure thing, princess.’

*

Jim found himself dozing on and off for another hour or so, mostly out of boredom. He heard footsteps approach and looked up to see Chapel by his bed.

‘Eat this, doctor’s orders,’ she told him, placing a cup of soup on the table next to him.

He felt a wave of nausea as the smell of the soup wafted over to him, the cloying chicken scent disgusting. ‘No thank you, I’m not hungry,’ he said coldly.

Nurse Chapel raised an eyebrow, brusque as Bones. ‘That was an order from the doctor, not a request captain.’

Jim’s blood boiled and his hand reached out to grab the soup and throw it at the wall. ‘I said no!’ he snarled.

For a few seconds there was no sound except the sound of soup dripping down the wall and onto the floor.

Jim felt sick, shame and confusion and horror at his behaviour making his flesh crawl. ‘Oh god, Nurse, I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I did that, I’m so sorry…’ he began babbling, words tripping over each other in his rush to get them out.

Nurse Chapel hid her shock well, her eyes widening only slightly then she calmly stepped back to pick up the broken crockery, placing it on her trolley. ‘No point crying over spilt soup,’ she deadpanned.

Jim gave a weak smile. ‘You should get a raise.’

‘That would be nice. But for now, I would like to take your temperature.’

‘Your bedside manner is much nicer than Bones’.’

‘Trust me captain, we take turns.’ She smiled at him. ‘Classic good cop, bad cop routine.’

‘Right…so am I a suspect or a patient?’

‘With all due respect Captain, you’re always a bit suspect.’

Jim groaned, and lay his head back on the pillow. ‘That was terrible. Going to go back to sleep now.’

‘Best cure sometimes,’ she answered, before popping the thermometer in his mouth. ‘Old-fashioned, but your readings keep sending the scans haywire.’

Jim let her put the thermometer in his mouth. A slight frown marred her features.

‘Am I dying?’

She sighed, lips pursing slightly. ‘Well, if you are, could you at least hold on until my shift’s over?’

*

Bones heard Jim’s loud burst of laughter even from his office, and he was grateful. He had seen the soup debacle from watching the security cameras, and he had never seen Jim in such a state. (Nurse Chapel was a godsend sometimes. Sometimes she was just another pain in the ass.)

He had seen Jim angry, and grief-stricken, and heartbroken, but never so needlessly violent. And he had never seen him waste food (understandably, considering his past trauma).

Bones sighed, rubbed his hand over his eyes. The thing was, he loved the kid, but he had no idea what was wrong with him.

Except…no, that was ridiculous. But he couldn’t rule it out, could he?

He opened up the files that the other Spock had sent him before he died. Pages of files, hours of logs, all neatly and meticulously ordered and indexed. Nothing about any of the alternate crewmembers - certainly nothing about himself, or his other self – but so much information about the other Spock and the other Jim. Medical scans, test results, psych evaluations...a cornucopia of information.

He’d only had the chance to talk at length with other Spock once. He knew that Jim and their Spock talked to him fairly often, but he and other Spock only talked once. So when other Spock had sent him all these files (not to Jim, or Spock, but to him) he had messaged him to ask why.

Spock’s answer had been short. I trust you to keep them safe. As our own Bones kept us safe.

He looked over the notes that M’Benga had from the examination he had given Spock this morning before he had beamed down to New Vulcan, cross-referencing search terms ‘fever’ and the phrase ‘my time’ that Spock had kept mentioning.

This lead to several pages on ‘plak-tau’ and a voice recording from other Spock as a much younger man. Bones clicked the file, leaning back to listen.

This is Commander Spock of the USS Enterprise, began the dulcet tones of the other Spock. It was odd hearing a voice that was so familiar yet so different to their Spock. The speech patterns were so similar yet the sound…

…I find myself at a loss. It is against Vulcan creed to speak of such things, especially to outworlders. Yet, I am half Terran. I am already part outworlder. Not only that, I have a duty to Starfleet, a duty to the crew, and my (his voice softened, a nuance almost imperceptible)… and to my captain that I explain my actions. Any consequences, therefore, should be seen in accordance with the circumstances surrounding the choices I have made. I seek neither absolution nor forgiveness.

I am in the beginnings of the plak’tow. The very early stages. I am more aggressive, I am experiencing memory lapses, and my body temperature has increased significantly.

I burn.

It is the biological instinct to mate that shreds to pieces all Vulcan logic and control. It consumes us, until we forget ourselves. We are lost to it. We mate, or we kill, or we die.

Bones stopped the file. He leaned on his hands to stop them shaking. Jesus, Vulcans!

He read over a few reports, his hands shaking while he poured himself a measure of bourbon. He then came to an audio file marked ‘Pon Farr – Jim’ and a date, seven years after Spock’s recorded log.

If hearing Spock’s voice had been a quick stroll through the uncanny valley, hearing Jim’s was like camping out in it.

Captain’s Private Log – once we had established the cause of the fever, the mood swings and loss of appetite, it was a surprisingly simple solution. Due to the bond between Spock and myself, when he began experiencing the blood fever, it triggered a similar response within me. The mating drive compelled us to seek each other out and well, mate. (A slight lilt, the smile audible in the voice.) I lost count after the first three or four times.

Ashalik, (Spock’s voice) I do not think the number is necessarily relevant.

Oh, but of course it is Commander (a slow roll of syllables, any James Kirk in any universe an outrageous flirt apparently), in the interests of science.

*

Bones had signed him off on medical leave indefinitely, and sent him back to his quarters. Jim wondered if he was going to die – there was a tightness around Bones’ eyes, and he knew there was something he wasn’t telling him.

He lay on the bed, the words Bones had said still ringing in his ears.

I have an idea. But when this is all over, please try not to hate me.

*

It was hot, too hot, Earth before they fixed global warming hot. His skin was on fire, and no matter how cold his showers, or how low the temperature in the room, he was burning.

He lay on top of the covers, wearing nothing at all, damn propriety. He had tried sleeping but every time he closed his eyes all he could see was his first officer. He tried to remember that Spock was his friend, that whatever feelings he had for him did not give him the right to think of him in such… such debauched ways.

Spock kneeling in front of him, sucking his cock. Underneath him. Spock’s hands pinned over his head while Jim took his pleasure from him.

Spock on his hands and knees with his tongue inside him. Making him beg and moan.

Oh god, Spock’s fingers. Those long, gorgeous, clever fingers, that he had watched fly over the console and caress the lyre strings; all those memories came to him now.

He would play Spock like an instrument, and make him make the most wonderful music.

He felt desire burn through him, his sanity turning to ashes. He contemplated banging his head against the wall just to stop the thinking. To tie his hands to something to stop them touching himself.

To just call Bones and ask him to sedate him. Maybe permanently.

His door chimed and he did not have the strength to tell them to wait, to put on clothes. He just ignored it, laying on the bed with his eyes closed and waiting for the fever to kill him.

Something told him Spock was in the room. He did not hear him, or smell him, yet something uncoiled in him, an electric current flowing through his brain and down his spine. He felt all the blood that had been pumping in his ears move to his groin, felt the stiffness between his legs while his body felt fluid and loose.

Ready, full of energy.

He opened his eyes to see Spock standing by the bed, dressed in some loose-fitting dull brown robes. Not flattering at all.

They had to be removed immediately.

There were a few seconds where they just looked at each other. Jim leapt up and pushed Spock back into the wall, tearing open his robes and rubbing skin on skin. He ran his tongue over Spock’s ear, down his neck and over his chest, occasionally biting his way down to Spock’s groin.

Jim was (he hoped) a considerate lover, enjoying as much the giving of pleasure as the receiving. However, that morphed, in this fever dream, into a fierce and ferocious dominance. He moved his hands, lips and tongue all over Spock’s body, swallowing him down, never giving him respite to catch his breath.

Spock had no poise, no control. He moaned, he begged, he whispered Jim’s name…this was blissful, this surrendering of all responsibility, allowing someone else to take control of his pleasure.

‘Nekhau,’ Jim growled into his ear, breath warm against his neck, and Spock allowed himself to submit, to be dragged over to the bed and pushed over so he was bending over it, hands on the bedspread, feet on the floor.

He felt Jim’s tongue probe at him, circling and stretching him out. He stopped to pull something from a drawer under the bed, then went back to his task, adding two lubed fingers. When they brushed against that spot inside Spock, rubbing it over and over, he heard himself call out.

Jim did not let him catch his breath, did not pause. He moved to stand behind him, lubed cock pushing slowly into him until their bodies met, and slowly dragging it out so only the tip remained. He did this until the burn had melted into a feeling of pure pleasure, massaging Spock from the inside.

He increased the pace until he was slamming into Spock then slowly almost withdrawing. ‘God,’ he breathed out next to Spock’s ear, ‘you feel so good. Want to make you feel good Spock. Always want to make you feel good.’ He took his hand and wrapped it around Spock’s swollen cock, thumbing the tip, moving his hand up and down at a brutal, agonisingly pleasurable pace.

‘Come on, sweetheart,’ he whispered, biting at Spock’s shoulder and neck, raking the nails of his other hand down Spock’s shoulders and back. ‘Come for me, commander’.

Spock lost it. His sanity had been barely clinging on as it was, and he fell into an orgasm that seemed to go on for hours. He could feel Jim’s body stiffen behind him, hear his name shouted out in ecstasy, then the feel of Jim’s own release.

It was exquisite.

*

‘You must hate me,’ Jim whispered, the first coherent words he had spoken in a few hours.

Spock was absolutely exhausted, but he managed to lift his head to meet Jim’s gaze. ‘Why would you think that?’ he asked, his voice calm and measured.

Jim looked away, his eyes wet. ‘Because I used you.’

Spock hummed an agreement. ‘Yes, several times, and I thoroughly enjoyed every one.’ He swallowed. ‘If anyone is to blame, I would argue it is my own biology that has confused matters.’

Jim looked back, a smile on his lips. ‘So you’re not mad?’

Spock sighed softly. ‘The fever has abated; I am much more lucid and coherent in my thoughts…’

‘That’s not what I…’

‘I know, ashayam.’

He felt Jim move closer to him, resting his head on his shoulder. ‘That means ‘beloved’ doesn’t it?’

Spock felt a short stab of panic. Obviously he was not thinking as clearly as he had assumed. ‘Does that bother you?’

Jim pressed a kiss onto his shoulder. ‘No. In fact, I think I’ve loved you for a long time.’

Spock felt himself smile. He gently rolled Jim onto his back and proceeded to make love to him for the rest of the afternoon.

*

Bones looked up to find Jim at his office door.

Well, he looked a lot better. The dark circles under his eyes were gone, and he smiled more easily.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

Jim walked to his desk and placed a bottle of Romulan Ale on top of it. He had even affixed a tiny red bow on it. ‘How did you know?’

Bones smirked.

‘I must be psychic.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like it, please share, just please give me credit for it. Am happy to take prompts, contact details in bio.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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